Juvenile Justice Information Exchange (https://jjie.org/author/john-lash/page/14/)
I remember the first time I saw a prisoner dying from medical neglect. He lived in the dorm with me, which was on the same floor as the medical section of the prison. People were placed there if they had serious conditions. This young man had severe asthma, and was often in need of oxygen and medications to help him breathe. Overnight he had been sent to see the nurse several times, and was still having trouble breathing.
A lot of people complain about youth today, but few do anything about it. That isn’t a criticism, but an observation. Kids who get into trouble usually don’t jump straight into full blown crime. They start small and work their way up. They are the kids who have problems at school perhaps, or run the streets committing petty vandalism or fighting.
Sometimes it seems there is an inherent conflict of interest between those who work in the field of juvenile justice and their goal of reducing youth involvement with the system. Providing a quality program that reduces recidivism, lessens the length of detention, or lowers the overall number of incarcerated youths can, in the long run, lead to the closing of facilities, shrinking allocations, and fewer jobs. Success can lead to obsolescence. There seems to be a built-in reverse incentive structure, where success never goes unpunished. This is not to say there aren’t a lot of good people doing this work, people who are dedicated to working toward something positive, and a lot of innovative strategies have been developed that seem to be working.
In most states, media outlets are prevented from reporting the names and some details in juvenile cases. This practice is born of the idea that juveniles can be rehabilitated and returned to society without the stigma of criminality. Overall this has been a successful policy, but sometimes it goes awry. A recent case in Kentucky has illustrated some of the pitfalls of the practice, especially in the age of social media. ABC and many other outlets reported the story a few days ago.
We sat in blue plastic school desks. The room was all white, with gray metal cabinets. It was comfortably air conditioned, which was a nice break from the summer heat. There were 20 or so prisoners of different ages, in various states of boredom. The teacher, a counselor, was droning on about the “disease model” of drug addiction, trying to explain some outdated research and half-baked ideas about addiction.
For some time I have read about the “school to prison pipeline,” an idea that links zero tolerance policies, school policing, disproportionate minority contact with disciplinary processes, and other factors to the increased incarceration of minority youth. The basic idea is that the system formed by these practices and structures contributes to putting more kids in prison. Lately, I have come across a similar term, the cradle to prison pipeline. This is the phrase trademarked by the Children's Defense Fund (CDF). It is daunting to consider that societal structures and policies can have such an affect on a newborn.
It was an isolation cell at a youthful offender prison where I spent a lot of time, a place called Alto, in north Georgia. It was used to break young men down, and it was often where punishment beatings took place as well. Even men who weren’t beaten would eventually begin to crumble. The isolation proved too much for even the toughest of us. Sometimes when the guards opened the door to deliver food you could hear the prisoners screaming, usually begging to be let out, with promises that they would behave.
Receiving a life sentence is a shock. When the judge said to me, in 1985, “I sentence you to life in prison as computed by the State Board of Pardons and Paroles,” I did not really comprehend his words. I was literally in shock. Afterwards, my attorney met with me briefly. He told me that since I had pleaded guilty and was still a teenager the parole board would probably let me out in seven years.
Back in the mid 1990s, we had a brief moment to celebrate progressive reforms in the prison system, a rarity here in Georgia. A high-ranking official in the state’s Department of Corrections, a man named Dr. Allen Ault, spearheaded a drive to address numerous allegations of sexual abuse against women in the DOC. His good work led to the departure of the agency’s commissioner and Ault’s appointment to the job. He ended up running the DOC from 1992 to 1995. And he might still be there today, had he not run afoul of politics.
This past weekend I made a trip to Kentucky with my girlfriend, and on the way back we travelled through the north Georgia mountains. Not far from our route was Lee Arrendale State Prison, in Alto, Georgia. I was incarcerated there from 1985 to 1989, and it was by far the worst prison I did time in. Today it is very different, housing women instead of male teens, and with only a few of the buildings left that I knew. As I neared the prison my body grew cold and numb, my heart rate and breathing increased, and I seemed to have trouble thinking straight.